Sunsets
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Dean is forced to realized that there are no happy endings for the Wincester family.


Summary: Dean is forced to realize that there are no happy endings in store for the Winchester family.

A/N: Okay, if you have a real problem with **character death**, don't read this story. If you're looking for a happy little pick-me-up, this really isn't it. I really don't know why I do this to my favorite characters, but I can't stop myself! Maybe I'm possessed and I need Sam and Dean to come exorcise the evil-fic writing demon within me...hmmm...Anyway, the more I thought about the poor Winchester family, the more I realized that while it makes for good TV, their lifestyle really can't end up anywhere positive. Also, my limited knowledge of medicine comes from reruns of ER and everything I know about ghost hunting I've learned from the brothers Winchester--in other words, I apologize if those elements of the story are lacking. I specialize in angst more than anything else. Special thanks to Cati for the beta :)

**Sunsets**

_When Sam was little, he liked to listen to fairy tales. He begged Dean to read them to him, promised Dean anything at all in trade for a story. Dean made a show of it, as though he hated it, but he always relented. He loved the look in Sammy's eyes when he opened to the first page and read, "Once upon a time…"_

_Sammy's fairy tales always had happy endings. No matter what happened throughout the story—no matter what death, what chaos, what evil—it always ended well. There was always a prince and princess riding off happily ever after into a sunset._

_Sammy loved that sunset. He loved it more than any other part of the story. Dean would try to close the book, but Sam would squeal, pleading with Dean to reread it, "Just the last page, Dean. Please."_

_"Why do you like these books so much, Sammy?" he asked, poking fun at his little brother._

_But Sammy was too young to respond to the prodding. "Everyone should live happily ever after," he said. "Daddy, me, you. We should all get a sunset."_

_Soon, Sammy could read his own stories. He copied Dean in every way he could at that age, including opting for more masculine tales, much to Dean's satisfaction. Dean never did understand reading all that much, but he preferred to see his baby brother reading stories about knights and dragons or even baseball rather than the kissing and swooning of fairy tales._

**00000000**

Sam was sleeping lightly in the motel bed. They had driven for two days straight after the coordinates showed up on Dean's cell phone. Sam's objections to his father's methods were silent now, visible only in his eyes, and Dean was simply grateful that Sam was there at all.

They were chasing a spirit again, this time in southern North Carolina. The legends surrounding the spirit dated back to the Civil War, and its death count was high enough to be of concern. Dean perused his father's journal. He often sought his father's words for information, knowledge and contacts.

The journal had awed him at first. It seemed nearly sacred, after all the years his father had spent scribbling every truth he could find into it. The depth and breadth of the entries were testimony to John's determination. But as he leafed through the pages, Dean realized there was really a story written there as well. It was almost lost in his father's sparse prose and distracted side notes, but it was their story. The story of the Winchesters.

Dean often wondered about the things that his father didn't write about. There was little mention of the rundown apartments they had rented, the school functions they hadn't managed to attend, the close calls they'd avoided. There were so many of those—so many broken dreams, broken promises, broken bones. The journal seemed to take it for granted that the Winchesters didn't need to settle down, they didn't need to connect, and they always had impeccable timing. Dean wondered if it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

Dean glanced at Sam who shifted in his sleep. His baby brother looked peaceful, and Dean hoped that good dreams had finally settled upon him for once. The contented look on his face reminded Dean of a younger Sam, whose eyes drifted to sleep in a musing of happily ever after.

**00000000**

_"Please, Daddy," Sam begged._

_Sammy used to beseech his father, too, for fairy tales, but John couldn't be bothered with children's stories. Besides, he hated them, for the farces that they were. John would only look at fairy tales for the legends embedded within them. _

_Those were the kind of stories John told: factual ones, dark ones, ones without happy endings. His journal wound through the dark side of fairy tales; it didn't talk about goodness, true love, or happily ever after. There seemed to be no sunsets for John Winchester, at least none that he would admit to._

_But the more Dean thought about it, he knew his father had left the journal for him to finish. The destiny of the Winchester family was a mystery left for Dean to write. His father had ridden off into the sunset after all, but he had done so by himself. And as Dean tried to follow the trail, he realized the problem with sunsets: whenever you tried to follow someone into one, it blinded you._

**00000000**

Dean had always known their story would never end well. Most days, he just didn't think about it. He let the hunt guide him, living day by day, never planning more than a week in advance. He liked to tell himself there was freedom in this lifestyle—he was tied down to no place, no thing, no one—except Sam. But, even on the best of days, he knew it was a lie.

And today was not the best of days.

His head ached and his arm still felt numb. The hospital room was bleak and lonely. There was no one by his bedside. That had once been his father's job, but Dean couldn't even bring himself to pick up the phone. His faith hung by a string as it was, and he knew another unreturned phone call would only send him crashing into the abyss. Usually Sam would be here, glued to his side, but—

Dean did let himself finish the thought. A nurse bustled in and started checking the readings on the nearby monitors.

"How're you feeling?" she asked pleasantly, flashing him a smile.

Dean didn't try to smile.

"Your vitals are looking good," she said.

"Can I see my brother?"

Her smile faltered slightly. "You need your rest."

"I won't rest until I see him."

"Dean, you know—"

"I have to see him. He's still alive, isn't it?"

Her smile was sad now. "Yes, he's alive."

"Then let me see him."

She was middle-aged and Dean could sense her maternal instincts kicking in. "I'll take you if you promise to take the IV and stay in the wheelchair."

Dean agreed to every stipulation without hesitation and let himself be pushed through the sun-less halls of the hospital

**00000000**

The sun was sinking in the sky when they reached the battlefield. The grass of the neatly manicured lawn glinted in the faded rays as Dean parked the Impala.

"Josiah Barnes, right?" Sam asked as he stepped out. The battlefield had been preserved for historical relevance. A large memorial had been erected, just next to the cemetery.

Dean shut his door. "Yep. Should be buried here. We'll have to dig fast. He'll probably be on us before we can finish getting rid of his bones."

"You can imagine why he'd haunt this place," Sam said.

"Why bother a bunch of tourists paying their respects?"

"No, it's the place," Sam said. "Barnes died young, at the hands of his own countrymen. War tore them apart, it ruined his life. I mean, he had prospects, a future—and he lost it all because people larger than him couldn't get along."

"That's war, Sammy."

Sam squinted at the horizon as they walked to the cemetery gates. "People just want their happy endings, Dean. You can't blame them for that."

**00000000**

_Sammy used to sit in the car while Dean and his father hunted. Sometimes, he looked at his meager collection of baseball cards; other times he perused the small collection that was Winchester family library. But what he enjoyed most was taking crayons to blank paper and drawing the time away._

_Dean had always liked to sketch guns and blood—something always died in his stick-figure artwork. But Sammy opted for happier scenes—a family portrait, children playing, a busy school room, sunsets. Always sunsets._

_He drew one for Dean once. He carefully used every color in his box of crayons, trying to recreate each one as his sky met the horizon._

_"It's my favorite one," Sammy said as he presented to Dean._

_Dean looked at it. "Why?"_

_Sammy shrugged. "It looks like just the kind of one the knight would ride off into. You know, like in fairy tales."_

_"Maybe you should keep it," Dean said, offering Sammy the paper back._

_"No," Sam said. "I want you to have the happy ending."_

**00000000**

The room looked exactly like Dean's—the same neutral walls, the same speckled tiles, the same cold air of sterility that made it hard to breathe. But something heavier lingered in the air, hinting at a dark reality that Dean didn't want to face.

But Dean knew. He had known from the moment they arrived at the North Carolinan battlefield. He did not have Sam's sensitivity to the supernatural, but he knew that this time, they would not have their happy ending. They would not sneak off in the Impala after sunset and crash in some small town where they could be anonymous.

He had never been more sorry to be right. Instead, they were in this hospital, listed under aliases.

Sam seemed to blend into the room. His hospital gown was the same nondescript blue of the bed sheets, and his face was as colorless as the walls. If not for the unkempt mop of brown hair, Sam may have disappeared completely, as lifeless as his surroundings. The machines, with their flashing lights and intermittent beeps, were more animated that he was.

Dean swallowed hard as the nurse rolled him closer.

Seeing the stricken look on Dean's face, she asked, "Are you going to be okay?"

Nodding quickly, Dean managed a strangled, "Yeah."

The nurse looked like she wanted to say something to comfort him, but thought better of it. She left him in silence.

Alone, Dean allowed himself to take in his brother's full appearance. A series of wires and tubes crisscrossed Sam's body, running under the blankets and beneath the hospital gown. Sam's hands lay limply at his sides, IVs running from the left. His hair was pushed sloppily away from his forehead, revealing pallid skin. Sam's mouth was obscured by another tube that was taped down for stability, and Dean tried not to hear the hiss the ventilator as it delivered steady bouts of air to his baby brother.

Dean winced, wishing for some way to make his brother better. He wanted to touch him, to assure him of his presence, but he couldn't bring himself to reach out. Sam looked fragile, so breakable.

Dean wanted to believe Sam could pull through. The Winchesters had defied the odds before when doctors had looked doubtful. They had always prevailed.

He, of all people, should have believed in miracles. Sam had never given up on him and had pulled him from the brink. He owed Sam the same.

But his determination faltered. He had never felt defeat like this. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that the ending of the Winchester family was being written in front of his eyes, and he was powerless to stop it.

**00000000**

A gunshot made Dean look up over the top of the grave. "Sammy?"

"Dean, hurry!"

The tone of Sam's voice made him eschew the pain exploding in his shoulder. The spirit had blindsided them, catching Dean across the shoulder with his bayonet as they worked on the excavation. Now Sam was warding him off as Dean finished the job. With a forceful swing of his shovel, Dean shattered the coffin's lid, revealing the decayed bones and moth-ridden garments of Josiah Barnes. "Got it!" he called, dumping salt on the remains before peeking up again.

Sam was a few rows over, the spirit standing in front of him. Dean watched as Sam's eyes widened and his face contorted. Dean heard himself scream as the spirit withdrew the bayonet from Sam's abdomen. He pulled himself out of the grave, his head spinning. He flicked his lighter, throwing it at the bones as he scrambled to his feet.

He was too late.

Before the fire could consume the remains, the soldier slashed twice more across Sam's chest and then drove the saber clean through.

Most spirits twist in agony as they are destroyed. Josiah Barnes looked straight at Dean as he fumbled forward. As he began to dissipate, Dean saw a cold satisfaction in his eyes.

Barnes' eyes were the last part of him to disappear, holding Dean's gaze, and sealing his defeat.

**00000000**

"Sam's condition is irreversible," the doctor said. "He's not going to come out of this."

Dean must have looked confused. The doctor explained, "The internal damage was severe. The blood loss was significant. His heart was stopped for a long time. All things combined, Sam will never wake up again. The only thing keeping him alive is the machines."

Dean knew every word before she said it. He had been anticipating possible ends since he was fifteen and first understood mortality. Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he let the possible scenarios play out in his head, like a morbid daydream.

In some, he and Sam died together, painlessly, completely overcome by uncontrollable evil. This one was his favorite; it meant less emotional torment. Because he knew that when one died, the other would also, in one form or another, and he preferred physical death over the slow suicide that would be its alternative.

In another, it was he who died first, unable to talk his way out of a nasty situation. The details didn't really matter; all Dean knew was that he would fade away and Sam would fall apart. He would either drown himself in alcohol or become reckless in the hunt, hurtling himself into as many dangerous situations as possible, hoping never to come out alive.

In the worst ones, Sam went first. Dean could hardly bring himself to envision this, but it lived in his mind, lurking in a corner like a malevolent promise. There were many ways in which Sam could die—some as simple as a failure to move quick enough, others as elaborate as finding his baby brother on the ceiling, making their family legacy complete.

The doctor was looking at him. "Do you understand?"

Dean looked at her, almost surprised she was still there. "Yeah."

"You can sit with him, think about your options. Think about what Sam would want."

Dean nodded. This end he hated most, because he knew when he lost Sam, he lost everything. The rest of his life was insignificant. There would be no reprieve from the grief; it would be his only companion in the long years to come. He wasn't sure if the hunt could continue—Dean's passion for it was hollow now, resounding endlessly in Sam's wake. But there was be nothing else for him to do.

Sam was the one that had dreamt of a normal life. Dean dreamed it too, but he had never believed it was possible. And it couldn't exist without Sam. It would never be right to live the life he wanted, to retire to the normalcy his brother had never achieved.

Ghost hunting didn't have happy endings. They had been condemned to this fate the day their father lost control in the wake of their mother's death, the day he had refused to truly grieve and decided to get revenge instead. Dean and Sam would never grow old, retire, and watch grandkids play. These were things for other people.

Dean wondered if Sam had foreseen this too. He wondered if this was the reason he tried so hard to break away.

The doctors told him Sam was nothing more than a shell, and Dean knew they were right. Sammy had been a shell since he left normalcy; he had been dying all along. Deep down, Dean knew that the worst ending really would have been for Sam to be forced to face this alone. He was grateful suddenly that, if it had to happen to one of them, he was the one who would watch his brother die.

**00000000**

Tripping over his own feet, Dean fell next to Sam.

There was blood, everywhere. Redness saturated his vision. It covered Sam's entire torso. Dean gaped, uncertain what to do.

He had always expected to be surprised, shocked. But Dean didn't even feel denial. He was almost more surprised to find Sam still alive than anything else.

**00000000**

"Turn them off," Dean said, his voice shaky.

"Are you sure?"

"Sam's already gone."

The doctor nodded in silent understanding.

Dean watched as the doctor moved soundlessly through the room, making preparations. Finally she turned to him and said, "It will take a few minutes for his heart to stop, but he won't feel a thing."

Dean just nodded, blinking away the burning sensation in his eyes.

A nurse turned the ventilator off. A moment passed before the machines registered a change.

Everything inside of Dean was breaking. All the years of close calls, miscommunications, and lost dreams surged within him, coming finally to the emotional point he had avoided for so long. He kept his eyes focused on Sam's face, holding his baby brother's hand in his own and letting his other rest on Sam's head. He did not feel the tears as they snaked down his face.

He tried to remember a time when there were other options, when this didn't have to be their fate, and tried to figure out how it had come to this. But Sam's face was still, and Dean knew that all the good memories, all the good intentions would never make up for this. Part of him wanted to be angry, but he knew that this was the cost of revenge, and it had cost more than he knew how to give.

Sam had been ready to die. Dean knew he had craved it. He had been watching his brother self-destruct for years. In the end, Sam was the one who deserved the easy way out.

He barely heard the monitor as it began to wail. He did not acknowledge when the nurse turned it off.

He was still holding Sammy's hand, stroking his hair when the doctor said quietly, "Time of death: 9:03."

**00000000**

Sam's eyes were open and focused slowly on the face above him. "Dean…?"

Dean's voice caught in his throat amid the fear that refused to be contained. With a hard swallow, he forced the panic back down. "Yeah, Sammy."

"Did…you…get him?" The words took effort and came between Sam's gasps for breaths.

Dean was groping for his cell phone with one hand, the other pressing down his jacket on Sam's midsection. "Yeah, Sam. Got him. He's not going to ruin anyone else's vacation."

He struggled to grasp the phone with the blood that slicked his fingers. Smearing blood over the phone, he managed to turn it on. As he was about to dial 911, he felt Sam grip his shirt.

Sam stared up at him, his eyes intense with a sudden desperation. His hand clutched at his t-shirt. "He just wanted the sunset, Dean. He wanted…the sunset."

The look in Sam's eyes made Dean stop cold, a terror unlike he ever knew blossoming deep within him.

His eyes were wide, entreating. "Do you…see it…Dean?"

Dean blinked hard, keeping away the tears. "See what, Sammy?"

Sam's voice was barely a whisper. "The sunset…"

The tears could not be stopped as Sam's eyes slipped shut and his hand fell lax. Dean pulled his brother close, his other hand still gripping the cell phone. Trembling fingers dialed the number and held the phone to his ears. As it rang, Dean whispered back, "Not yet. Please, not yet."

**00000000**

The sun was setting as Dean left the hospital. He sat in the Impala on the roof of the hospital's parking ramp, trying to bring himself to start it, but couldn't tear his eyes away. The sky radiated with color, the hues sharpening in the fading light.

It was the perfect sunset, the kind that Sammy had always wanted to ride right into and disappear.

Dean slammed his hand on the wheel and cursed, anger coursing through him before hot tears ran down his face.

The silence was haunting; a vacuum existed where his brother had once lived. _"Everyone should live happily ever after," _he could hear his brother saying. Sam's youthful features would remain forever in his memory, sincere and hopeful._ "Daddy, me, you. We should all get a sunset."_

Sam deserved the happy ending, the sunset, everything. There was some solace in knowing he got the happiest one the Winchesters could afford.

Dean cursed the spirit that did this, the evil that motivated it, and every other thing he could think of. Mostly, he cursed his father for starting this story, a story that could never have closure.

When the sobs diminished, Dean looked up again and cursed its beauty because it was a sunset Sam would never see.

Maybe Sam didn't have his happy ending, but his sunset was spectacular. So Dean turned the ignition and pulled out of the ramp, ready to follow the sunset where it took him, until he too faded away with his own unhappy ending where the road met the horizon.


End file.
